Tsunami

The warning sirens started going off at bedtime, and the phone started lighting up with texts. My home is on high ground, I could listen to the cops whipping by to round up the drunks at the beach, and tried to stay awake by watching Game of Thrones, but I fell asleep during the live-streaming webcam footage of the waves. One would think that, given all the tsunamis in recent years, the news stations would have a more sophisticated option for surveillance than hotel webcams. Nobody could see what happened to Kahului, and when I checked again this morning, the official word was, "It is dark out." Very helpful.

And of course I have to drive out today.

Will take pictures if there are sharks on the road.

time wasting through productivity

I have been completely failing at packing and donating and getting stuff ready to move. I have been succeeding wildly, though, at activities which keep my ass parked in front of Misfits.

The weekends are long and quiet. As an introverted-type who deals with the public all week, I like the alone time, although in general I feel comforted having someone like-minded around the house messing with their own projects. Especially if those projects result in beer or furniture or fancier backyard lounging.

On Canadian Thanksgiving  (I was born in Newfoundland) I used the excuse to put on almost-Christmassy classical music and fix a feast in miniature. The sweet potatoes were purple, and the Yorkshire pudding deflated a bit, and the wine was just root beer, but it felt homey for a few minutes. Until it just underscored how alone I was, and I cleaned it all up.

Finished the stocking. Haven't decided who's name to stitch onto the top. My mom told me to make a second one and she would wear them as socks under her motorcycle boots.



New Ancestral Stocking

In an attempt to clear out my yarn stash before tossing most of it at the thrift store, I got into some nubby black cotton and made up a little baby sweater. Immediately, every cat in the house had to find it and lay on it. Because cat hair shows on black, and they are still mad about the top-hat incident.

CO 56 stitches for front and back, 34 stitches for sleeves, and that's all the notes I took.

Failing at pattern-making.



While sorting all the crap in my sewing cupboard, I became sidetracked by some Anna Maria Horner fabric and an old Simplicity baby pattern.

So I still haven't hauled any shit to the thrift store or dump, but I have it all mentally arranged. And that counts for... very little, but still something.

speaking of hairy apples

No sooner had I said, "Those hairy apple things my janitor made me eat last year," than he turned up with a pile of hairy brown apple things. My coworkers eyeballed them and generously pushed them all toward me. Well guess who will be immortal when the right scary fruit thing comes along? This pie-making lady, that is who.

Definitely not an apple.

Recipe:

2 weird brown hairy fruit things

2 granny smith apples

spoonful of flour

1 handful of sugar, because there isn't much left and the brown sugar is missing

cinnamon

butter

lazy-ass pre-made pie crusts

Peel and chop up the fruits, toss them with flour, then mix in sugar and cinnamon, dump into pie crust, dollop with butter, pop top crust on and try to get fancy with it.

DONE. 

Actually, cook it for an hour at 350 first, and then for sure this time DONE.

P is for Pie.

The magic fruit cooked up just like apples, with a tart, perfumey, rose-like flavor. It is so amazing that after eating it, you may need this:

(I was very excited by this body fluid kit on the marine corps base bus. May petition the Friends of the Library to install them by our public computers. And flower pots. And trash cans. People are gross.)

Been trying to use this spare time to finish projects. I've started sketching out the next book project, but I can't find my fookin art box, which has all my paint brushes in it. So I'm finishing the Christmas stocking, which is roughly large enough to stuff an entire child into. The rule is that if it's bigger than my stocking, it's cheating. Not sure what to do about this.

Found my sketchbook from last year while hunting for my box (leave it) and found these cat gestures.

So, friends, WHERE IS MY BOX? It is blue, and well-used, and covered in splotches. It should be very hard to hide in a house with no closets. Internet, find it for me. I can't buy more brushes until Monday, and that is YEARS.

Edit: FOUND. Out in the open. Of course.

Oahu

I packed up three suitcases with clothes and toys, stuffed a cat in a carrier, and took the boys to Oahu. Cats can't be sent through the baggage x-rays, so they make you take them out and carry them through security while they try to claw out your hair and eyes (the cats, not security). The kids thought this was pretty fantastic. TSA thought it would be funny to make me hold my hands out for chemical swabbing even though I was holding a frantic cat, in case she was an elaborately disguised bomb. If I were going to disguise a bomb, I would knit it a bomb cozy and pretend it was ironic. And then get caught and go to prison, because I am terrible at subterfuge, and that hiding-in-the-open thing never works. That is how they got my keychain pepper spray and whiskey flask.

The Blue Angels were terrorizing Kaneohe in preparation for the air show. Driving back from the airport, traffic braked and swerved as the jets roared in overhead and buzzed the highway. We all flailed and yelled in excitement, and decided to take the kids to the show over the weekend.

Which we did.

I didn't get any shots of the show with my phone, as I am a fan of viewing things with my eyeballs. My favorite bit was when they burst out over the crowd from behind and made everyone scream. Stealth attack! I am not informed enough to be an enthusiast, but I appreciate a skillful display of weaponry and combat.

The kids appreciated flipping all the switches on the cargo plane and pretending to crash it. I banned them from flight school.



A hundred school buses glided up with military synchronization to carry the swarming masses back to their cars. I waited for them to execute precision barrel rolls while we rode through the base, and in general felt much better about our odds of surviving the zombie attacks. Leif was similarly at ease.

Back at my mom's house, Astrid was getting acquainted with the place. My two old cats from high school - now tottering around like 18-year old sacks of bone and fur and nubby teeth - almost keeled over from anxiety. Xebo started hissing at everything that moved, including the fan, and Hercules tried to hiss and went into an asthmatic coughing fit. Astrid galloped away, scrabbled down behind the washer, kicked out all the hoses, caused a flood, tried to escape through the bathroom window, and got caught between the screen and the closed louvers, smashed flat upside down like a trapped ferret.

Then she climbed the front screen and tried to walk across the curtain rod.

And traumatized the fish.

This was all very entertaining, but in the down time between forays to Target and visits to our favorite restaurants, we sat in the evenings watching Jeeves and Wooster and I knitted a tiny sweater, start-to-finish.



Vestee, my go-to pattern for folks with incoming offspring.

Made in washable Comfy.

I added cables up the sleeves, because I am fancy

and enjoy putting a lot of detail into something that will be barfed on.

I flew back alone on Tuesday. Three weeks to wrap things up and interview for transfer. A costco package of frozen burritos to sustain me. A new phone to pester the kids with via FaceTime. A bed to myself and the new J.K. Rowling book to take with me. The month will go by in no time.